Every man, every woman who has to take up the service of

Host: The chamber of marble and echo stood still in the heart of the city’s government district, lit only by the low amber glow of a single chandelier. The evening rain traced rivers of light down the tall windows, and the clock above the dais ticked with solemn rhythm, as if marking not time — but conscience.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat alone in the empty council hall. The benches stretched endlessly around them — silent witnesses to too many words spoken and too few meant. The air smelled faintly of paper, dust, and power.

Jack, still in his coat, stared up at the mural above the podium — an allegory of Justice, painted with a face that looked too serene for reality. Jeeny, sitting cross-legged on the bench below, ran her fingers along the grain of the oak desk, her eyes glowing softly beneath the chandeliers’ tired light.

Outside, a distant siren wailed, faint and fading.

Jeeny: “Pope Francis once said, ‘Every man and woman who has to take up the service of government must ask themselves two questions: Do I love my people in order to serve them better? Am I humble, and do I listen to everybody, to diverse opinions in order to choose the best path? If you don’t ask those questions, your governance will not be good.’”

Jack: (dryly) “You think anyone in this building ever asked those questions?”

Jeeny: “Maybe once. Before the microphones and the money drowned them out.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed the pattern of the marble floor, his reflection fractured by its seams — as if even his image refused to stand united.

Jack: “Love and humility. The man talks like politics still has a soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it could — if people stopped confusing ambition for service.”

Jack: “You think love belongs in government? Love doesn’t balance budgets.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only thing that reminds you why you’re balancing them in the first place.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the tall glass, a percussive hymn of the city’s restless conscience. The sound filled the chamber, wrapping around their words like a living argument.

Jack: “You know what love in politics becomes? Manipulation. You tell people what they want to hear, make them believe you care, and then you move the pieces how you need to.”

Jeeny: “That’s not love — that’s control. Love listens. Love doubts itself.”

Jack: “And gets eaten alive by the ones who don’t.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe being eaten is part of serving.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, yet each word struck like rain on stone. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk, the polished wood cold beneath her hand. Jack turned toward her, brows furrowed, his expression sharp but uncertain — the look of a man hearing truth he didn’t want but couldn’t refute.

Jack: “Humility doesn’t get you elected, Jeeny. Charisma does. Sound bites do. Nobody votes for the quiet listener.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But humility is what keeps the elected from turning into tyrants. Look at history — every downfall started when someone stopped listening.”

Jack: “And when they started believing they were chosen by something higher.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Francis says listen to diverse opinions. Humility isn’t weakness — it’s knowing you don’t have a monopoly on truth.”

Jack: “And what happens when the ‘diverse opinions’ are wrong? When half the crowd cheers for cruelty and calls it order?”

Jeeny: “Then love has to be brave enough to confront them, not copy them.”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly plunging the hall into shadow. When they steadied again, the murals looked different — the faces of the painted figures seemed heavier, more human, as if weary from centuries of watching the same arguments repeat.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. Love, humility, service. But I’ve seen people start with ideals and end up drowning in compromise. You can’t run a state like a confessional.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can govern like a human being. That’s the difference. Francis isn’t saying lead with perfection — he’s saying lead with compassion.”

Jack: “Compassion doesn’t keep nations stable.”

Jeeny: “Neither does arrogance.”

Jack: “And humility doesn’t win wars.”

Jeeny: “But it might stop the need for one.”

Host: The air thickened, charged with something unspoken — tension not of argument, but of realization. Jack rubbed his temple, his voice low, almost confessional.

Jack: “You ever think love just complicates leadership? You start caring too much, you lose your edge.”

Jeeny: “No. You lose your fear. That’s different. Fear builds walls. Love builds bridges.”

Jack: “And bridges burn.”

Jeeny: “Only if no one crosses them.”

Host: Silence fell, the kind that stretched deep — the silence that always comes after a truth that refuses to fade. Jeeny leaned back, looking up at the mural, her expression distant but peaceful.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I like what Francis said? Because he didn’t talk about governing nations. He talked about governing hearts. That’s where it starts — every bad government is just the reflection of unexamined hearts sitting in rooms like this.”

Jack: “So you think the cure for corruption is confession?”

Jeeny: “No. Reflection. Every leader should be forced to sit alone in this room at night, with no audience, no cameras, and ask those two questions: Do I love my people? Do I listen? You’d be amazed how few could answer.”

Jack: “You’re assuming they’d care to.”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’d know who doesn’t deserve to lead.”

Host: The rain softened, turning to a gentle patter — the world exhaling after its storm. Jack looked down at the polished floor, where the reflection of the chandelier shimmered like a cracked halo.

Jack: “You think love really belongs in politics, Jeeny? Isn’t that naïve?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s necessary. Without love, politics becomes math without meaning. And without humility, leadership becomes theatre without truth.”

Jack: “You’re describing a miracle, not a government.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need more miracles.”

Jack: “The Pope would agree with that.”

Jeeny: “He’d also say miracles start small — with someone who decides to listen before they command.”

Host: The clock struck ten, its chime echoing through the hollow chamber like a verdict. Jack rose, his shadow stretching long across the marble, then turned toward Jeeny, his expression softened by something unspoken — not agreement, but reverence.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe leadership was about strength. About being unbreakable.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe it’s about being transparent enough that people can see through you and still trust what they find.”

Jeeny: “That’s what humility looks like, Jack. Not small — clear.”

Host: The chandelier flickered once more, casting shifting light across the walls — Justice, Mercy, Faith — the painted words barely visible above their heads.

Jeeny: “Francis is right. Leadership without love is tyranny in slow motion. And leadership without humility is blindness wearing a crown.”

Jack: “So, you’d trust the humble over the strong?”

Jeeny: “I’d trust the one who can admit when they’re wrong — because they’re the only one who’ll ever learn.”

Jack: “You really think the world could change if every leader asked those two questions?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we could. And that’s where it starts.”

Host: The rain stopped. The chandelier’s last bulb flickered, then steadied, its light soft and golden, like dawn trapped in crystal. Jack and Jeeny stood in the stillness — not as politicians, not as cynic and dreamer, but as two citizens of the same fragile world, both realizing that maybe love and humility weren’t ideals — but survival tools.

As they turned to leave, the camera lingered on the statue’s face, its bronze eyes reflecting the faint glow of light, and beneath it, an inscription nearly worn away by time:

“To serve is not to rule,
but to listen, to love,
and to begin again.”

And in the distance, as the doors closed softly behind them, the rain began once more — gentle, persistent, cleansing —
as if even the heavens were practicing humility.